Crowned For His Desert Twins by Clare Connelly
CHAPTER FOUR
‘OH, GOD, NO.’ She stared at the pregnancy test with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, her worst nightmares confirmed. Six weeks after rushing from the penthouse apartment she’d shared with Khalil, India finally had an explanation for all the strange symptoms she’d been experiencing. The exhaustion, nausea, sore back and rioting emotions had been easy to explain on their own, but her skipped menstrual cycle was the final straw. It was only when writing overdue bills in her calendar that suspicion had formed.
It couldn’t be true. Surely fate wouldn’t be so desperately miserable as to throw this complication into her already careening out of control life? She looked around the home desperately, as the future seemed to twist away from her completely.
‘Pregnant?’ She groaned, shaking her head and laughing at the same time—this couldn’t be true!
The realisation hit her that she was alone. No, she corrected herself. She’d have Jackson, and, even though their finances were in a parlous state, somehow, she’d cope. Her parents would expect that of her, and for them, she’d do this.
On autopilot, she strode into the kitchen and opened the top drawer, where she’d stashed the envelope, the morning after returning from Khalil’s hotel room. He must have put it in her bag while she slept; she hadn’t discovered it until she’d returned home. She’d been too numb to do more than reach for her bus pass at first, but then, she’d needed her keys and that had required a more detailed rifle through her bag. It was only then that she’d identified the envelope with thick black lettering on the front.
You earned this.
Her heart had thudded to a stop as she’d opened the envelope to discover a cheque—grey in colour with gold lettering and the intricate emblem of the Khatrain royal family. The cheque was made out to her, for an absurd amount, more than she earned in a month—or had earned, before losing her job.
‘This is a reputable agency, India. I will not have the name of this business dragged into disrepute by young women who are looking for an extra way to earn income. You will no longer be listed on our books. There are several other...businesses...that deal in the kind of work you do.’
She had been mortified and offended, and then terrified. Keeping her younger brother Jackson at college was all her responsibility, and on top of attempting to maintain her parents’ mortgage, so that she didn’t lose their family home, India already struggled to make ends meet. Without the booking fees from Warm Engagements, she had no hope.
Why hadn’t she cashed the cheque sooner? Because she hadn’t earned it. And to cash it would be some sort of tacit acceptance of his accusations. Now, though, the cheque took on a new meaning, as she imagined all of the expenses involved in carrying out a pregnancy and then delivering a baby. Courtesy of her mother’s cancer treatments, India was no stranger to hospitals and what they charged—there were some bills still outstanding. There were also the baby’s needs once it was born. She could thrift shop a lot of things, but certain items would have to be purchased new, and there would be a period of time when she was unable to work altogether. What would she do for childcare? There was no one who could help her.
How was she going to do this, and all on her own?
But she had to. For the sake of their baby, she had to find a way to manage. And the cheque Khalil had written was a good place to start. To hell with her pride; there was a baby to consider.
Khalil had truly hoped she wouldn’t cash the damned thing. He didn’t realise how much he’d needed that assurance until his bank in New York called to advise him that the cheque had been brought in that morning. It was all the confirmation he needed—not that it had been necessary. A cursory investigation by his security team had shown that she was a popular employee of the agency, going on multiple dates a week. They’d been unable to confirm her assertion about meeting men at the events, however society photographs had captured more than enough images of India being held tight by her dates, the intimate nature of the pictures making it impossible to believe that things were as innocent as she claimed.
Why had she waited six weeks to cash the cheque? It was a question that barely mattered. She’d lived up to what he’d thought of her, it was time to stop remembering the night they’d shared. It had been the worst mistake of his life; he could only be grateful his father had been spared the mortification of tabloid speculation about it. Their kiss had not gone public.
It was not appropriate that he continued to think of her, that she played such a part in his fantasies night after night. Somehow, her betrayal stung almost as much as Fatima’s. When he looked back, there was a part of him that had, on some level, always known Fatima for what she was: mercenary and opportunistic. He’d fallen in love with her quick wit and fun-loving attitude, but there had been something in her eyes that had been appraising, always, something that had held parts of him back from her as well. But with India, he’d been completely fooled, her innocent act so easy to buy into.
He scraped back his chair, pacing towards the windows that overlooked the capital city of Takistan and, in the distance, the Persian Gulf—which, today, sparkled as though a net of diamonds had been cast over its surface.
At twenty-nine years of age, he knew he could delay no longer: his country required him to marry before his thirtieth birthday, when he would become King of Khatrain. It was necessary to choose a suitable bride—he could no longer think about India. She didn’t deserve it.
Only his mind was not obeying him today, and India continued to flash before his eyes, as she’d been in the car on the way back to his suite. She was an excellent actress, he’d give her that. His lips twisted in a mocking smile as he reached for his phone.
‘Have my horse readied. I intend to ride west.’ He gripped the receiver more tightly. ‘I do not know,’ he responded to the question of, ‘for how long?’ and then disconnected the call. The desert was an essential part of his soul, and it was there that he could clear his mind of the American call girl—an obvious mistake—once and for all.
‘He is still unavailable, madam.’ India stood like a flamingo in the kitchen, one foot propped against her opposite knee, her hand resting on the bench to her left. The other pressed to her still-flat stomach as she tilted her head to catch the phone between her ear and shoulder. It was a warm day and pregnancy hormones—in full flight despite the fact she was only eight weeks along—were making her tired, nauseous, anxious and cranky. She had been attempting to contact Khalil for over a week, ever since she’d decided he deserved the courtesy of the information at least.
Only contacting a royal was no mean feat.
‘Well, when will he be available?’ she snapped, although it wasn’t this low-level staff member’s fault that Khalil had disappeared into thin air.
‘I cannot say, madam. My apologies.’ The line went dead.
India made a deranged laughing sound as she placed her cell phone on the bench. Was he dodging her calls? Or truly unavailable? She suspected the former, and it made her furious to think that he wouldn’t even give her the courtesy of a conversation after that night. But then, she’d seen his anger when he’d accused her of being a prostitute. She’d left his hotel with no question in her mind that he hated her—and truly wished to never see her again.
‘Well, tough,’ she said softly, patting her stomach. ‘I know what it’s like to be abandoned by your dad and I’m not going to let that happen to you, little one. At least, not without a fight.’
She knew a little about Khatrain—bits and pieces garnered through her life, and studies—but most of her knowledge related to their economy. It was dry, black-and-white information about their oil industry and burgeoning tech sector with their headquarters in the then fledgling city of Takistan. Only Takistan was now a stunning metropolis, a sprawling construction of steel and glass that burst from the earth. The dusk sky gave it a perfect backdrop, the gradient colours spreading from purple to gold and orange highlighting the twinkling lights of the monoliths in the foreground. She craned her neck to see the city better, admiring not just its modernity but also its proximity to the ocean, which curved around it like a ribbon, and had been diverted, at some point, to create several canals that ran as veins between the buildings.
‘Beautiful,’ she said with a shake of her head, earning an approving nod from the man beside her. Their elbows had been engaged in a silent battle for the duration of the flight, the too-small seats and narrow armrest far from ideal for the number of hours she’d had to spend cramped between her neighbour and the portal window. But it had all been worth it to secure this exceptional vantage point of the city as they descended.
The plane was climate-controlled. It was only once the doors were opened that a rush of hot air blasted into the cabin and India had to brace herself against the seat in front. Nausea rose in her chest. She grabbed a mint from her purse and sucked on it—this was the only thing she’d been able to discover that helped with the waves of sickness that assaulted her occasionally.
Their aircraft had been towed to a distant terminal—the budget airlines’ designated space—and there was no air-conditioned aerobridge leading inside. Instead, there were stairs, wheeled to the doors of the plane, and a large, sweeping route around another aeroplane before they were ushered through security doors and passport control.
India stifled several yawns as she shuffled along the queue, grateful when at last she was beckoned forward.
‘And the purpose for your visit?’ the woman, stunning with her dark eyes and lips that had been painted a deep red, murmured as she scanned the passport.
To tell your bastard of a sheikh he’s going to be a father then get the heck out of Dodge, she imagined saying, a tight smile curving her lips. ‘To see an old friend.’
‘Social.’ The woman nodded, ticking a box. ‘How long do you intend to stay?’
‘Twenty-four hours.’ And though it wasn’t necessary, she flashed the printout of her return ticket, her escape route already planned. She would do whatever she could to give the Sheikh this information, and then she would leave. If he still refused to see her, then at least she could tell their baby that she’d tried. She knew first-hand the importance of that. And if he refused to let her leave? The idea flashed into her mind suddenly, so she froze, her eyes wide, before she discounted it. He’d be as glad to see the back of her as last time.
‘Such a short visit. It is a shame. There is much in Khatrain to see—many wonders to enjoy.’
‘I’m sure there are. Unfortunately, I have commitments back home.’
The woman reached for a stamp, clicked it onto India’s passport, then slid it across. ‘Enjoy your brief trip, then, madam.’
Again, India was buffeted by the heat when she stepped out of the airport, so she lifted a hand to her face, waving it rhythmically. There was a long queue for taxis, and she waited with depleting energy. Her plan had been to go to her hotel first and freshen up, before attempting to contact Khalil, but now that she was here, she simply wanted to get this over with.
When she finally slipped into a taxi—with at least some air conditioning—it cooled her rising temperature. She stared at the hotel’s information, opened her mouth and then closed it again. ‘The royal palace, please.’
The driver met her eyes in the mirror and India was grateful she had over a year’s experience attending glittering social events in Manhattan. If she’d learned anything, it was how to act as though she belonged anywhere. ‘Is there a problem?’ Her tone was stiff, her demeanour imposing.
‘Of course not, madam. Right away.’
The car pulled into traffic and India allowed her head to drop backwards, against the leather seat of the car. For a moment, she closed her eyes, needing to restore a little of her energy.
Only Khalil was there, as always, his face haunting her, so there was no real respite. She woke with sweat beading her brow, just as the car drew to a stop.
‘This is as close as I can get,’ the driver said, gesturing to the large golden gates in the foreground of, without a doubt, the largest and most magnificent building India had ever seen—whether in real life or photographs. Her jaw dropped and the magnitude of what she was about to do sent a tremble down her spine.
Her baby was a part of all this. And she’d had no idea just quite what that entailed—she had been imagining Khalil and Khalil alone, without quite realising what his title meant. He was going to be King, and their child would be—what? His heir? Or an embarrassment? Was she making things worse by coming here? What if he refused to acknowledge their baby? Was it worse if she’d told him and Khalil made that decision? Was it better for the baby to believe its father had never known? Could she do anything to make this better?
But what if he did want to know the baby and be a part of his or her life? India had barely known her father—he’d blown into her life when it had suited him, then disappeared for months or years, so she’d never been able to count on him. What if Khalil wanted to be a real part of their child’s life, to see him or her regularly, to call and ask how their day went? India would have given her eye teeth for that, and she would fight for the chance for her baby to know that kind of love.
Even though there was a real risk that it could backfire.
‘Thank you.’ She paid the driver before opening her door. She was prepared for the heat this time, though it still dried her eyes out. She pulled her sunglasses into place and hitched a small backpack over one shoulder, standing and staring at the palace as the taxi driver sped off.
Turrets of white stood high in the sky like puffs of cream atop large round towers. Some were golden, others pale, and there was a large open courtyard lined on all sides by palm trees that cast spiky shadows across the marbled floor. A fountain stood in the very centre, spurting water in several directions, before landing in a large oval-shaped pool. Her mouth went dry at the very visage. She turned her attention to that barrier, scanning it thoughtfully, until her eyes landed on the security guard nearest to her. There were several, standing every ten feet or so, staring out at the road, ever watchful. The man in front of India had his eyes on her, so she smiled—it was not returned. His hands were at his sides, but at his hip he wore a pistol and a large rifle was holstered diagonally across his back. Though his uniform was ceremonial, she had no doubt he had full military training. Fear shifted through her, but India had come this far; she wasn’t about to be turned back now.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, when she reached the man.
He didn’t say anything, but his eyes met hers, curiosity in their depths.
‘How do I get inside?’
He regarded her with evident surprise. ‘Do you have an invitation?’
She thought quickly, playing out multiple scenarios in her head. If she said that she didn’t, she would likely be turned away immediately. There was no guarantee that any words she uttered would even make it to Khalil’s ears—except for one sentence.
‘I do, yes. His Highness Khalil el Abdul sent for me.’
The man’s expression changed immediately. He lifted his walkie-talkie—propped on the hip that lacked a gun—and began to speak in his own language, harsh words that she didn’t understand.
‘Your name?’ He switched back to English. Butterflies burst through her.
‘India McCarthy.’
He repeated her name into the walkie-talkie.
‘Documentation?’
‘It was a phone call,’ she lied. ‘He asked me to come over the phone.’
‘Identification documentation,’ he clarified.
‘Oh.’ Heat stained her cheeks as she reached into her bag and lifted out her passport. ‘Here.’
She held it up for him but he took it, turning away from her and moving to another guard. That guard left with the passport, and the original returned to his post.
Something like anxiety tightened in her gut. ‘Where’s he going?’
The original guard didn’t answer. She was grateful that the sun was low in the sky, as she stood waiting for a long time—at least twenty minutes. Already fatigued, weary and emotionally exhausted, she wanted to cry, but wouldn’t give the guard—or anyone—the satisfaction. Eventually, Original Guard’s walkie-talkie began to crackle. A brow shot up, before he gestured about three hundred metres down the fence. ‘There is a gate. Go to it; someone will take you from there.’
India nodded her thanks. It was a long walk, and, given the heat, she didn’t rush. Eventually, she reached the gate, where several guards were waiting. Anxiety grew.
‘This way, please.’ A woman gestured without smiling towards the marble courtyard. India followed behind, aware of the two guards who came to flank her. As they passed the fountain she stopped walking, giving into temptation despite the certainty it would earn the disapproval of her companions. She moved to the water and quickly lowered her hands, splashing some onto her forearms and neck, instantly refreshing. The female guard stood waiting, her face impassive. No, not impassive, India realised. There was almost something like sympathy in her beautiful eyes.
‘It has been particularly hot this summer,’ the guard said, slowing her pace a little.
India could have wept for the small kindness from this random stranger. To be spoken to with something approaching civility was beyond her expectations—and it was badly needed!
‘I had prepared for heat, but this caught me unawares.’
‘Tourists find it hard to bear at first.’
Whatever reply India had been going to make died on her lips as they swept through a set of double doors—each several metres wide, and at least four times her height. The foyer they were in was clearly a ‘nuts and bolts’ part of the palace—with security apparatus and a minimum of décor—and yet it was still impossibly grand, with high ceilings, chandeliers, marble floors, and artwork adorning every bare space on the walls, so that her eyes were almost overwhelmed with the visual feast.
‘You will need to pass through security,’ the woman said, gesturing to the large scanners, the same as India had passed through at the airport.
‘Okay.’ She bit down on her lip, placing her bag on the tray so it could be whisked along a conveyor belt, then stepping through the frame. Just as at the airport, the scanner did not register any problems.
‘Good.’ The woman even smiled, so India’s butterflies were somewhat allayed, momentarily. With that hurdle crossed through, there was now the task of telling Khalil he was going to be a father—a conversation she was utterly dreading. If only she could have sent a text or email, but she had no direct way of contacting him.
‘Will you take me to Khalil now?’
The woman’s expression was startled. ‘His Highness Sheikh el Abdul has been informed of your arrival. I am not yet aware of when he will see you. Please, take a seat while you wait.’
India’s nerves were on the brink of fraying. Are you kidding me? She shook her head as she moved towards the seat the guard had indicated, easing herself into it. She was too wound up to relax, though, far too coiled to enjoy the comfort of the armchair. She fidgeted with her fingers in her lap for the first hour, before frustration got the better of her and she moved towards the man behind the computer screen, who’d scanned her handbag.
‘Excuse me, sir, are you able to get an update on the Sheikh’s schedule for me?’
The guard looked at her as though she’d asked him to swim to Mars. ‘His Highness will see you when he can. If he decides to see you at all.’
If?India hadn’t even thought of that. What if, even now, he refused to meet her? Tears sprang to her eyes and she turned around quickly, before the man could see her. Odious, horrible person!
Thirty minutes later and a door opened, so she stood, apprehensively, but it was just a servant wheeling a trolley. She came towards India before stopping, lifting the lid off the top tray.
‘Some refreshments, madam.’
India stared at the food and felt instantly sick. She dug her fingernails into her palm, trying to control it, but the waves of nausea were growing stronger. ‘Is there a restroom?’ she demanded urgently.
The woman nodded and gestured to a purple door. India broke into a run and just made it, heaving over the toilet until her stomach was empty and her hairline moist with perspiration. When she emerged, the servant had gone but the tray remained. India was able to pick over it now, choosing a plain bread roll with some butter, and draining the glass of iced tea far too quickly. She sat down again, frustrated and angry.
Another hour passed. She approached the guard once more, her mind made up. ‘I’d like to leave. Would you help me organise a taxi to the city?’
The guard met her eyes, shrugged, then spoke into his walkie-talkie. She bit down on her lip, the reality of her situation landing squarely between her eyes. She’d wasted money she couldn’t afford on flying to Khatrain, all because she’d believed there might be a shred of decency in Khalil. Why had she even thought such a thing after the way he’d spoken to her the last time they’d met? The things he’d said to her, the look of hatred in his eyes—she should have known better than to hope.
She pulled tighter on her handbag strap and waited, her arms crossed. It was only minutes but, given India had already been waiting for several hours, she was ready to burst something when, finally, another door opened. This time, three guards swept through, and behind them, Khalil. But not as he’d been in New York. Then, he’d been spectacular-looking but somehow familiar to her. Now, he was so fascinating and majestic that, even though her heart was flooded with hate, she found that all she could do was stare at him as he stormed towards her. He wore long white robes that breezed behind him with the speed of his stride, and his body was broad and powerful, even more so dressed like this. His eyes bored into hers and she felt the same rush of anger she’d known on that last morning, the hatred and disrespect. Her heart flip-flopped. ‘Khalil,’ she said as he drew close, and one guard gasped.
‘Your Highness,’ he corrected coldly, without breaking his pace. ‘Follow me.’
The lack of courtesy was surprising even after all that had passed between them. Nonetheless, she had come here with one thing in mind, and she intended to carry out her objective. She scooped up her bag and fell into step behind him, but she had to half run to keep up. He moved away from this pragmatic entranceway and into a corridor—though, really, it was as wide as at least four corridors, and decorated with ancient-looking furniture on both sides, including enormous vases of flowers that were totally unfamiliar to her, exotic and spiky, like something out of a fairy tale. Their fragrance was sweet, and, in her current state, India’s nausea returned with a vengeance.
‘Will you slow down a bit?’ she asked, slowing her own pace accordingly, pressing a hand to her hip.
Khalil stopped walking and turned to look at her, exasperated. But as his eyes scanned her face there was, for a moment, something like concern. Perhaps there was a hint of humanity in the man after all?
‘You are ill?’
‘Well.’ She put her other hand on her hip, glaring at him with undisguised irritation. ‘Let’s see, shall we? I’ve endured a cramped plane trip, a hot taxi ride, a stand-off out the front of your palace with an armed guard who was clearly hostile, and then hours in a room waiting for Your Royal Highness to decide to see me. How do you think I feel?’
If India had been less angry, she might have noticed the blanching of the guards’ faces at her tirade to their Prince, but she was in her own bubble, completely incapable of thinking clearly or acting calmly.
Khalil was used to his guards and didn’t mind their presence in any respect. He paced towards her, his eyes sparking with hers. ‘You arrive unannounced and expect what, India? That I might roll out the red carpet? And what exactly in our interaction gave you any idea I would be glad to see you again?’ He leaned closer, lowering his voice. ‘We agreed we would both forget what happened.’
She looked away, wondering if he’d been able to do that so easily. For India, Khalil had been burned into her mind, so she saw him all the time, dreamed of him, woke up reaching for him...
‘Believe me, I don’t particularly relish being here, but you gave me little choice. Had you accepted any of my attempts to contact you, then we could have dealt with this over the phone. You left with me no choice.’
‘On the contrary, I left you with a very clear choice—to stay out of my life.’
Her lips parted and now she saw the guards, their faces carefully blanked of emotion, and embarrassment swept through her. ‘Is there somewhere more private we can speak? I just need a few moments of your time, Your Highness.’ She imbued his title with as much scathing cynicism as she could, easily matching a tone he had employed in the past when speaking to her.
‘I was taking us somewhere more private when you demanded that we stop.’
She compressed her lips. ‘I asked you to slow down; that’s not the same thing.’
It was obvious that Khalil was not used to being contradicted—and she enjoyed that fact. He deserved nothing better than to be strenuously put in his place. If it weren’t for the conversation that was to follow, she could almost have enjoyed the awkwardness of their interaction. But this was just the prelude to what would necessarily follow, and India could see quite clearly that it was not going to be as simple as informing him of her pregnancy. She’d run straight into the lion’s den and she would need to think fast to get out alive.
